Of All Possible Worlds
by MentallyDysfunctional
Summary: In another, kinder galaxy, there was no Sith plot, no Order 66. The Republic marched on to victory against the Confederacy. On the anniversary of end of the war, Colonel Rex prepares to rendezvous with old friends, and a torrent of memories.


The day had come. There was a time when he doubted it ever would. The light of the onrushing evening filled the room, a compratively small flat in one of Coruscant's more affluent districts. It was more than adequate. In truth, it was more than he felt he deserved, but that sort of talk wouldn't do from a hero of the Republic, CT-7567. Rex. His friends used to call him that. Now, everyone in the Core knew him by that name.

They knew the face too, though it was more than just his face. It was a face of countless millions. Once, it had been the face of just one man. One soul in many bodies. The War changed that. It had given them all their own faces. Rex couldn't stop staring at the one it had given him. The lines were deeper, and there were more of them. They joined the ghosts of scars bacta couldn't quite disappear. The hair that fought to peek past his regulation grooming was grayer than it once was. Yet he was still fighting trim, still a warrior. So said the mirror. He gave another glance at the tunic resting on his bed.

It wasn't a drab duty uniform, nor the battered white armour that had been his second skin for uncounted years, but rather the crisp parade tunic of the Grand Army of the Republic. A dozen medals and a few more garish decorations cluttered the fabric; the Coruscanti Cross, the Star of Onderon, a record of battles waged across four score star systems written in precious metal. Shiny bits of tin. Rex sighed. He hated wearing it, to be honest. It smacked too much of pretension and impracticality. He was just a simple soldier, always had been. But the boys would be expecting it. The civilians...funny, technically, even _he_ was a civilian now, would be expecting it. So would she.

He shrugged into the tunic, medals clinking against one another. He glanced at the rank bars on his chest; Colonel. They'd wanted to make him a Brigadier. He turned them down. He was a field officer, with mud in his veins. Even the Colonelcy was brevet, an honourary rank he didn't receive until the fighting was over. Being associated with some of the War's great names, Tano, Kenobi, Skywalker...it made a man popular. It also gave him a voice. A voice he had put to good use. He glanced at his chrono, and almost swore. It wouldn't do to be late. One last glance in the mirror, and then cap under his arm, he put the small apartment behind him. A short stroll and a slow lift brought him to the landing platform, and the waiting hover taxi.

'Where to?'

'79′s.'

'You got it.'

###

The airspace in front of the bar's platform was chaos. Dozens of brightly coloured repulsor vehicles jockeyed for a spot to unload, and the taxi's pilot dove into the fracas with relish. For a moment Rex almost regretted not accepting the Republic's offered staff car. Yet somehow, with a bit of luck and alot of hoarse profanity, the cabbie barged up to the lip of the platform. Rex stepped onto the steel, happy to be back on something solid. He dug in his pocket for a credstick. The cabbie almost looked insulted.

'You kidding? This one's on me pal.'

Rex almost smiled. He barely finished a smart about face when the voice hit is back.

'Hey, trooper!'

Rex glanced behind.

'Happy Republic Day.'

The Colonel smiled proper, and nodded. The cabbie pulled a sloppy salute, and with a whine of repulsorlifts, was gone.

Rex turned back to 79′s and began making his way across the crowded platform. The Clone bar had always been a busy establishment, but every Republic Day, the anniversary of the Separatist surrender, the old soldiers of the GAR mounted a full scale invasion. The Colonel took it in with wide eyes. What immediately struck him was how different they all were. In another life, this would have been an assembly of fighting men, trim, identical, perfect and bland. Now? It was a mess of fathers and grandfathers and uncles, men with whiskered chins and sagging bellies and liquored breath. Little scars, gestures and mannerisms made each and every one of them uncannily different. Whether it was the way they laughed, the way they held a smoke, the number of teeth in their heads, none of them could truly be called perfect. It quivered Rex's gut, ideal in its imperfection.

When the War ended and the dust and glittertape had settled, there remained a great many questions. Some, such as the degree of complicity of certain Republic politicians and bureaucrats in the Separatist cause, were handled behind closed doors. Other, more obvious frustrations, were debated loudly in the public eye. None was quite so poignant as The Clone Question. The Republic, so eager for an army to safeguard itself, had never given any serious thought to just what was to be done with a vast corps of manufactured soldiers, trained from birth to thrive on war. The same Clones who had fought so selflessly to secure galactic peace were now left to ponder whether they in fact had a place in it. Some actually proposed rounding the Clones up on 'reservations', maintaining a respectful distance from polite society and their chattel killers, a temporary embarrassment allowed to wither and be forgotten. A few even whispered of a 'quiet retirement'; a kind word for mass euthanisation. Those whispers threatened to grow loud and hateful. Rex's hand twitched, half wishing for a weapon. Those days were as uncertain as Umbara...

The Jedi. They listened, and spoke. The Jedi, who had led his brothers, cared for them, taught them so many lessons, including how to love themselves. The Jedi gave them a voice. They used it. In those precarious hours, duty had called to Rex once more. When the Senate held its hearings on 'Clone Rehabilitation'...he couldn't just keep silent. It was hard at first. It was hard enough standing up to General Krell, but the Senate? Rex remembered just how small he had felt, floating at the centre of the Senate chamber.

'Honorable beings of the Galactic Senate - ' he began. So timid. A good soldier. He almost went mute. But he remembered. Geonosis. Christophis. Ringo Vinda. Then the words wouldn't stop. His voice grew louder and louder, until his whisper became as thunder. Suddenly, he knew the courage he had felt matching flesh against droid steel. A few formal words became a torrent, and that torrent became a tidal wave that could match any that swept the seas of Kamino. His heart roared in that chamber that day. He felt her smiling behind him. That warmth grew as that steel cavern erupted with applause. That was the beginning. More speeches followed, interviews on the HoloNet news, public appearances and charity dinners with many of the same people who had made a tidy profit off the battles his brothers fought. Discpline helped him bury the snarls at the sickening hypocrisy. Perseverance paid off. In the end, it had led to the creation of the Ministry of Veteran Affairs, and his appointment to their senior committee. There he still remained, though more of an advisor than administrator these days. If you had asked him, all those years ago when he was fresh from the bottle, he would've never presumed to guess what his future would have been. That just one Clone could have made such a difference for so many.

Now, somehow, they were here. Against all the odds of the Universe, against everything they had been taught from their first breath, they were here. Some still wore their old uniforms. Others, clearly would no longer fit. Many more still were anything but uniform. The sea of colour that swirled before him was more than just the neon lights; greasy coveralls mingled with the tailoured finery of diplomats and businessmen, religious habits, and battered flyboy jackets painted with racy Twi'lek girls. Many wore their medals too, dangling jauntily from shirt pockets alongside old unit insignia and baubles collected from dozens of worlds. There had been questions, in the beginning, whether Clones should even be awarded medals. Even many of those same soldiers felt they didn't warrant them. That too, changed. Those bits of ribbon became another piece of their individuality, another stamp on their passport into the human race. Rex would never learn to love his, but the pride they gave his brothers outweighed his misgivings.

The door had been left ajar, no obstacle against a flood of patrons, or the tang of the night air. Aside from the crowds, Rex noted as he elbowed his way in, the place really hadn't changed. The same old bawdy jokes, the old war stories that grew bigger in the telling, creds changing hands over cards and drinking bouts and the races on the holos. One corner thundered with chants and curses as a pair of big fellows arm-wrestled it out, another full of sultry giggles from the girls of every colour that still worked the place. Even if 'their boys' had gotten a bit softer and greyer, they didn't seem to mind. Every Clone was a hero at 79's. He thought he glimpsed a familiar facial tattoo. Was that Fives? It was hard to get a clear look between the two Twi'Leks and the Zelty. Yeah, gotta be Fives. Rex would remember to say hello when he wasn't so preoccupied.

Suddenly a voice managed to cut through all the others.

'Hey, its the Colonel! Colonel Rex!'

The babble became a roar. Every eye in the room was on him, everyone piling on top of one another for a better look. Alot of good booze was spilled as they jostled and howled, raising toasts and shouting his name. Someone started singing _'O'er the Stars and the Sea'_. A few more drunkenly joined in, adding the old Clone hymn to the din. Rex sheepishly waved off the praise as the crowd parted sloppily before him, besieged as he was by an onslaught of handshakes and slaps on the back. He had been respected among the men of his command during the War, as a warrior and a leader. The work that came after, fighting a whole other war - their quiet war - had won him a whole new level of admiration. All his life, he'd just been a simple soldier. Just like them. To them, he had become more than that. He had become the man who had saved them all.

The moment vanished with the speed it had appeared, and Rex finally reached the bar. Drinks were on the house, the bartender made sure he knew it, and Rex practically had to beg the being to give him a minute to make up his mind. But his past wasn't done catching up with him.

'Rex!'

He knew that voice. He turned toward the crowd, bringing him face to face with a grinning, black gloved giant of a man. Rex wasn't the only one with a few more lines on his face. The ace pilot wore them well, and that wasn't down to merely the beard, like that of another old Jedi, that had crept across his face. Rex never claimed to be knowledgeable on the Force, but even he could feel the warmth from the man; the fire in his heart that had at times burned so angrily in youth had changed, tempered...but burned no less brightly.

'General Skywalker.' Rex spoke with a nod.

The Colonel extended a hand. Anakin took it, the other gripping the shoulder of his old friend. Then, with a warmth that only grew with the years, the two embraced. Such a display went against all the decorum of a soldier. Amidst the drunken joy of the bar, no one cared. They weren't soldiers now, none of them were. Force willing, they never would be again.

'How are the two attachments?'

The old joke had become an endearing moniker, a jab at all the things Jedi Master Skywalker wasn't technically supposed to have. He and Padme had worked hard at creating two more.

'They miss their uncle.'

Rex let out a contented sigh.

'Veteran's affairs keeps me pretty close to the Core these days.'

'Well, the Clone settlement program on Naboo could benefit from some senior oversight. I'm sure Padme could arrange an inspection...'

Rex let out a chuckle. The General hadn't changed.

'If the Senator is convinced the situation on Naboo warrants my attention, how can I refuse?'

Anakin was about to reply when another pair of arms wrapped Rex from behind.

'I get my turn, right?'

Rex was half forcibly spun on his heels, and in a flash of saffron and white and a fanged, giddy smile, there she was. He remembered when she barely stood head to his chest. Now her montrals actually gave her centimeters on him.

'General Tano.'

'Rex, its been how many years since I told you to cut it out with the rank?'

'Sorry, Ahsoka.'

'Leave the old man alone, Snips.'

'Old?' she shot back 'He's not the one starting to look like Obi Wan.'

Even Rex laughed at that. She wasn't wrong.

'How is General Kenobi?'

'Well. He's been attached to the Republic relief delegation to Mandalore. I've heard he's working quite closely with the Duchess.'

Somehow their smiles grew all the wider. Of course, Rex reasoned, that was likely more than just the loving jab at their perfectly imperfect old friend. Judging by their breath, he realised he was the only one who hadn't had a drink. Or four. As if she read his thoughts, Ahsoka suddenly shoved a glass in his hand. As he sniffed at the contents - Coreillian Brandy, eighteen year - he figured she probably did.

'You've been wrapped up in relief work yourself, or so I hear.' he said with a sip. Frell, that stuff was smooth.

'We all have. After years of war, for the Order to finally get back to our true purpose of building the peace...its like have a weight taken from our shoulders, for all of us.'

'From one battle to another, blasters to plowshares...' Rex swirled his glass.

'Rex, going political hasn't made you go all gloomy on me, has it? Well, ya know, more than usual.'

'I guess I _am_ getting old.'

'Come Rimward sometime, visit some of the projects the ArgiCorps has put together alongside the Republic's relief organisations. _That'll_ make you feel young, if only because of all the younglings running riot. You should see Barriss. She's like a mother with a hundred kids.'

'General Offee was a capable commander. I'm sure she manages.'

'Oh she does more than manage. Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen her so content.'

She downed another drought. Rex hardly noticed when a few of the bar's holoscreens switched to an address from the senator of Onderon, one Lux Bonteri. Ahsoka glanced up half-way through her drink, and erupted into a coughing, cackling fit, having unexpectedly snorted half her cocktail. Tears started to stream down her face, from laughter as much as the alcohol burning her nostrils. Rex raised an eyebrow.

'Is there something I'm missing?'

She waved him off, struggling to breathe.

'Remind me to tell you about Carlac sometime...'

Rex shrugged, and sipped his brandy. Anakin wrapped an arm around each of them.

'So here we are again, just like old times.'

'Well, not just like.' Rex retorted 'For awhile there Ahsoka couldn't even sit at the bar.'

She shot him a barbed look, and then erupted in another giggling fit.

'So what shall we drink to? Victory? Peace? Fat pension checks?'

Rex mused for a moment, then lifted his glass.

'To us.'

'To us.' They echoed.

He supposed was getting introspective in his old age. It was hard to shake how much it all felt like a dream. As a combat soldier, he knew better than most that life wasn't like the holos. It was the rarest thing in the world to find a Happily Ever After. Yet looking around him now, surrounded by so much warmth, so much courage - with men like this, friends, _family_ like this...He raised his glass for another toast.

How could it have ever ended any other way?


End file.
